The promise of summer
by BHP
Summary: Lisbon talks. Jane listens. An epilogue to the season 1 finale.


All the usual disclaimers apply: I don't own the show, the characters, or anything other than the words on this page. And I'd love to hear what you think.

**The promise of summer  
****By BHP**

The orange smelled like summer. Fresh, sharp, clear. A glimpse of the days soon to come. Shades of sunlight fell from his fingers as he peeled it, dropping to rest brightly on the green grass. The movements of his hands were unconscious, his thoughts far removed from this simple task. He smiled slightly as he remembered doing this many years ago.

"Daddy. Daddy, peel it for me." His daughter had been insistent, and he'd reached for the orange even as his wife spoke.

"What did you forget?" The little girl had pulled a face at the ground, then smiled sweetly up at him. She held the orange out again. "Please."

"Anything for you, sweetie."

His smile turned pensive and he walked on through the gathering warmth of early summer. Soon the suits would feel too hot to bear, but he'd wear them anyway. The way he dressed was part of the person he'd been when he'd goaded Red John. The suits were less flashy now, but still a daily reminder of what arrogance could lead to. True penitence should be all encompassing; the suits, the house, that face on the wall. He kept every aspect of his crime vivid. Accepting and moving on would be the greatest sin of all.

"Jane. Are you alright?" Lisbon appeared unexpectedly next to him, her question quiet and serious. Patrick stopped and turned to face her. Her dark hair lifted slightly in the gentle breeze, the waves rippling in the sunlight. Her chocolate eyes rested on him in concern, with gratitude in their depths.

"Why, Lisbon, you almost sound concerned." He let a cocky grin surface. He didn't want to think too deeply about what he'd done the night before. "Keep this up, and people will start to talk." He offered her a section of the orange, the plump segment resting on his open palm. Slightly wary, Teresa reached out to take it.

His hand was cool, but her fingers were chilled. Jane's eyes met hers, his gaze appraising as he considered events from her point of view. She'd almost been killed. And he'd certainly not made things any easier for her. The man he'd killed hadn't been Red John, but his death had been necessary. Without Teresa, Jane knew he had very little chance of finding Red John. But when it came right down to it, he'd done what he had for only one reason: he needed Teresa in his life. She was one of the very few real friends he had. She helped to keep him sane. And she knew that he planned to kill Red John slowly and painfully when they found him. Teresa had to be confused by his actions. Even Patrick wasn't quite sure what to do next.

"I am concerned." Lisbon's fading smile was tinged with regret. "I'm grateful for what you did for me. But I can only imagine what it must have cost you." She was frank, and Patrick found himself unable to break her gaze. Lisbon's slight stature belied the strength of her spirit. "You may have lost your only chance to find Red John, but you chose life anyway. My life over whatever you wanted instead. That was a very brave choice."

"Not really." Some of the light faded from Patrick's eyes, shadows creeping in to haunt its place. "I need you alive, Lisbon. Without you, I can't find Red John. I don't think a selfish choice, such as I made, can be brave." Jane's insouciant grin turned self-deprecating. "And my history proves that I'm not brave. If I were, I would have had the courage to admit my trickery before he killed my family." Patrick sighed and finally looked away. "No. When it comes to me, I think the word you're looking for is coward."

Patrick turned and walked away, not caring where his path led him. It was always so difficult with Lisbon. Telling her too little guaranteed she'd keep at you until she knew everything. Telling her too much was tantamount to admitting you had something to hide, and she'd dig through all the facts until she found the one you were trying to overlook. Patrick didn't have the energy right now to walk the tightrope needed to keep Lisbon from learning too much, so he was hoping distraction and avoidance would do the trick.

Lisbon watched Jane walk away. His eyes were fixed on the ground before his feet, his shoulders slumped, and he dragged one hand slowly through the riotous golden curls before letting it drop to his side. He looked so alone. And he was making it clear that that was how he wanted things to stay. Lisbon snorted delicately. "Coward." She watched Patrick take another few steps, then raised her voice. "Jane. Do you really think I'll fall for that?"

Jane stopped. Turned around to see Teresa heading toward him at a fast pace. Before he could even marshal his thoughts, much less an argument, Lisbon's petite frame planted itself firmly in front of him. Her laughter was not what he'd expected.

"I'm not some gullible idiot who's just met you, Jane. I know you're trying to get me to go away and leave you alone. But I'm easily as stubborn as you are, so guess again." She shook her head in fond exasperation. "I know you better than you think."

Patrick shook his head, a small grin surfacing as he considered her words. "Okay, Lisbon. You've caught me. Just this once."

Admitting that was worth it, just to see the smile that filled Lisbon's face with warmth. If only everyone could be that happy, for such a small reason. Looking past Lisbon, into the deserted areas of the park, Jane spoke again. "I know you want to help, Lisbon, but you can't. Not this time. I just really want to be alone."

"I know that's what you think you want. But take it from me, that's not what you need." Lisbon's tone was definite. "I'm not saying you need to go out and paint the town red, but …" Jane's wince caught Lisbon's eye. "Sorry. Bad choice of words. Trust me on this, though. After last night, you don't need to be alone. You need someone to talk to, someone to listen. Someone who understands at least part of what you're going through. And that's me."

"Really? You think you have what it takes to fix me?" Patrick's tone was biting, sharp slivers of ice chipping at Lisbon's confidence.

"Nope. I can't 'fix' you, as you put it. Only you can do that. But as far as what you had to do last night goes, I think I can help. I've had to shoot people too." Lisbon was quiet for a moment, then carried on more softly. "I know how it feels to have no choice but to take a life. I know that you spend hours, days even, trying to figure out what you could have done differently. It can make you doubt yourself in ways you never even thought possible."

Patrick stiffened slightly, and went to move around her. Lisbon stepped neatly into his path. Two more tries netted the same result, and in spite of himself, Patrick had to smile. The woman certainly was persistent. Rightly seeing the lurking smile as a chink in her friend's armour, Lisbon tried again. "C'mon Jane. You want to talk to me. You know you do. You're just scared because I might know more about this than you do."

It was a low blow, Patrick thought. He should be immune to that type of manipulation. But killing a man, no matter that there'd been no other choice, had obviously disturbed his emotional equilibrium more than he'd realised. He could feel himself rising to Lisbon's bait, and the words were out before he considered them. "Bring it on, Lisbon. Odds are I can handle anything you can throw at me."

"I don't intend to throw anything, Jane. I may fantasise about throwing sharp-edged objects at you, but unlike you, I've got self-restraint. I don't feel the need to give in to all my impulses."

Jane was startled into laughter. "I can practise restraint, you know. I don't tell you about every little thought or idea I have."

"And we're grateful, believe me." The words were dry enough to rival the Sahara. Patrick shrugged slightly, then straightened up. Lisbon wasn't one to beat around the proverbial bush, so he had a feeling that she'd make her point sooner rather than later. He didn't like not being in control of things that affected him; generally speaking, he just didn't like not being in control. Lisbon always managed to get him off-balance, so he'd long since decided that striking first was the best way to handle most interactions with her. If only she weren't so difficult to get a read on. It made deciding what to say, and how to say it, so much more complicated than it should be. At least life around Lisbon was never boring, that was some consolation. The thought made Patrick smile.

"So, Lisbon, let me guess. You want to tell me that I can talk to you about what happened; or I can talk to the CBI psychiatrist if I want to; that I need to know that I'm not alone; that no-one believes there was any other option; and that things will get better in time." Patrick ticked the options off on his fingers in turn, his tone disinterested. The spark of humour flaring in his eyes was quickly banked to observe Lisbon's response.

Teresa sighed and shook her head gently. A tolerant smile lurked in the shadow of her direct gaze. She swatted the five waggling fingers he'd counted all her arguments on, and laughed at his feigned cry of pain. "Okay, okay. So you guess well. That's not news to anyone who knows you. Or to anyone who's ever been in the same room with you for half an hour. You're quite the over-achiever."

Sardonic. Patrick liked that. He liked that Lisbon would joke with him, even if it was at his expense. No-one else dared, and he missed the feeling of accepting companionship he'd shared with his wife. Lisbon had told him, not so long ago, that she didn't trust him. That had worried him for days, until he'd figured out that she only felt the need to doubt him when she thought about things too much. When she let herself feel and react, say what she meant without trying to censor herself, then it was obvious that she trusted him. Teresa wouldn't allow herself to thaw enough to joke with Patrick if she didn't trust him. If she could do that, then he could trust her with his vulnerabilities. He knew she wanted to say something that she wasn't sure how to say. Whether it was herself she was struggling with, or his possible reaction, he couldn't be sure. But he could see it was difficult, and he wanted to help.

A secluded bench beckoned, shaded in dappled light by another orange tree. Patrick led the way and settled Lisbon on the seat. Lisbon perched on the edge, her eyes locked on the lattice she was weaving and re-weaving with slender, quivering fingers. Patrick watched for a moment more, then carefully reached out and stilled her fingers with his own.

"Lisbon." No response. "Teresa." That got him a startled stillness. "Teresa, sometimes the easiest way to do something unpleasant is to just … do it. So whatever it is that you're trying to tell me, so very politely; just say it. I won't think you're rude, and I won't hold it against you." A sudden grin lit the space between them. "At least, no more than usual."

"You never call me Teresa." The tone was wondering, the statement almost a question, a desire to understand this sudden change.

Patrick glanced away, faintly abashed at being caught out so easily. Though to be fair, Lisbon was always watching him, analysing his techniques and adding them to her own not inconsiderable arsenal of unusual weapons. That unnerving, die-straight dark gaze of hers was probably the most formidable weapon she possessed. She didn't usually exercise it on him, but under its full strength, Patrick suddenly found himself keen to talk, to explain; whatever would get her to stop staring at him.

"And you never hesitate like this. You're always decisive, courageous, honest. So just let yourself be all those things now."

"I've had to be decisive. My brothers needed me to be." Lisbon sighed deeply, drew another deep breath, and spoke. "You think you want to kill Red John. Don't say anything right now, okay? Let me finish. I know that's what you think. You told me so yourself. But I want you to think about last night. I saw how quickly you dropped that shotgun; I saw how much pulling that trigger upset you."

Lisbon reached out to rest her hand on Patrick's arm. "I know why you did it, too. Thank you. I didn't want to die there. You saved my life. Let me at least try to do the same thing for you." A quick glance showed that Jane was listening to her, at least. It was a hopeful sign.

"When my mother died, I was devastated. I didn't know what to do, or say, or how to go on. But my brothers needed me to be strong, and I found a way. I found someone to blame. For a long time, I blamed my father. I was so angry, I hated him. I hated God. I even hated living." Teresa felt Patrick take her fingers and give them a gentle squeeze, and returned the comforting gesture. The warmth of another human presence was enough to let her carry on.

"I wanted someone to pay for what I'd lost. The easiest person to blame was my father. He could have paid more attention to her, could have looked out for her better. I wished that he were gone, that I still had my mother instead. But wishing doesn't make it so. And I still wonder if my behaviour didn't make him even more prone to drinking. I'll never know. I do know that the alcohol killed him. And that it would have killed us all if I hadn't refused to get in the car that night."

Patrick's grip tightened fractionally at the thought that he might never have met Lisbon. How much poorer his life would have been if he'd never met her, never been able to call her his friend. A trill of birdsong from high above them made him smile and look up at Lisbon. She was watching him, her eyes concerned and determined. Jane listened to the silence between them, let it settle, then spoke.

"So, your father died that night?"

"Yes. A head-on collision. I was terrified. How was I going to manage? Look after myself and my brothers? And there was the funeral to organise, the estate, all that stuff that you never think about until something happens. Luckily, my aunt was glad to help. And we did okay, all things considered."

"More than okay, I'd say. If you're anything to go by."

"An honest compliment. I'm stunned, Jane. What do you want?"

"Shame on you, Lisbon. Sometimes a compliment is just a compliment."

"Thank you, Dr Freudian slip. And sometimes it's a distraction." Patrick ducked his head, flushing faintly at being outmanoeuvred. "Not this time, Patrick. You're going to listen."

"Okay, Teresa. Say your piece."

"I thought I wanted someone to pay for me losing my mother. I wanted that person to be my father. But even when he was gone, it didn't bring her back. It didn't change anything that had happened. And most of all, it didn't make me feel any better."

Patrick was shaking his head. "It's not the same thing, Lisbon. Your father didn't murder your mother, paint her with her own blood, and leave her body for you to find." The catch in Jane's voice was heartbreakingly painful to hear, the anguish in those blue eyes reaching out to drag her in. Lisbon battened down her sympathy.

"I know, but the end result will be the same. You won't feel any better, and your family will still be gone. And you'll have done something I know you won't be able to live with. You're not evil, Patrick. You're not a bad person. I don't want you to think that you need to become one, to achieve some pointless ambition."

"Justice is not pointless, Lisbon. Never. You should know that."

"I do. But what you want isn't justice. It's revenge. And I won't let you do that to yourself. I can't call you my friend and let you do that."

"You can't stop me, you know."

"Maybe not. But I have to try."

She was so earnest. Her glance caught his and held it. Patrick could see how fervently she believed every word. He would be sorry to lose her friendship. And he realised that she knew him too well when a small, sad smile graced her lips.

"I know you don't believe me. But promise me one thing, Jane. Please."

"If I can."

"Just … think about it, okay? Don't just cling to one belief because it's comfortable, or comforting. Think about it. Please?"

She meant well, and she cared so deeply that Patrick hesitated to disappoint her. Surely he could give her his promise that he would think about what she'd said. In all honesty, he would think about what she'd said. About what he'd learned about Teresa, rather than about Lisbon and the façade that kept her strong at work. About the strength she hid behind a slim frame and formidable skills and intelligence. And about how lucky he was to have someone like her in his life. So yes, he would certainly think about what she'd said.

But Patrick knew he still intended to kill Red John. Could he lie to Teresa and not be devoured by guilt? A lie would eventually destroy their friendship, festering in unspoken defiance between them. It was a gamble: destroy their relationship with a lie now, or a murder later. Patrick opened his mouth to speak, and found himself silently gulping air liked a beached goldfish.

One look at his face was all it took. Lisbon laughed uncontrollably, fighting to regain her calm. She wiped away tears of unexpected happiness, and let him off the hook. "I know you don't think you'll ever change your mind. I think there's a remote possibility you might. Despite what you'd like to believe, you're not always right. And if making me a promise now, gives you a way to back out of something you one day decide that you don't really want to do … By all means, blame it on me and the promise you gave me today."

Patrick sat motionless, following the completely off-the-wall logic that was typical of Lisbon. The woman was good at getting under his skin, more than he would have believed possible. But nothing she could say would change his mind about his plans.

"Red John doesn't deserve to live."

"That may be true. But you don't have to be the one who kills him."

"I promised myself, and my wife and daughter, that he'd pay. I knelt in their blood and promised them. And I take my promises very seriously."

"I know that. But he can pay by spending the rest of his life in prison. He lives to kill. In a jail cell, he'll have to live the rest of his life without being able to do that. For Red John, that might just be worse than death."

"I want him dead. I want him to suffer like his victims did."

"I understand that. Honestly, I do. But you can make another choice here. You chose life last night; my life over the man you shot. All I want is for you to choose that again. Choose your life over Red John's life. Let me help you put him in prison, and then let your friends help you learn to live again."

Teresa shook an admonishing finger under Jane's nose, forestalling the inevitable argument. The consultant could be more stubborn than a truckload of mules. If she could just get him to understand that it didn't have to be a choice between ruining his own life and letting Red John go unpunished. There was always another option. If she could get him to consider the idea that his justice could exist without his revenge, she knew she'd worry less about Jane. She wanted him to care enough about his own life that he'd consider living fully again one day in the future.

"Choose life." Jane's voice was soft. He reached past Lisbon's shoulder to pluck a fallen leaf from the back of the bench. His fingers worried at the veins, slowly shredding the whole into small green slivers. "Do you have any idea what you're asking, Lisbon? How hard it would be to do?"

"I have some idea. I'm not asking you to do anything now. Just promise me that you'll think about it. That's all."

"You drive a hard bargain, Lisbon." Jane was solemn, thoughtful. He let the silence settle around him again, soothing him. He could hear the distant sounds of traffic on the city streets. Children laughed on the other side of the park, chasing each other in some complicated pattern only they could follow. He could hear his own heartbeat, feel the pulse in his linked fingers. Life went on around him, unceasing, indifferent to his loss, his pain and guilt. Lisbon's shoe scraped across the concrete under the bench, and Patrick amended his last thought. Lisbon wasn't indifferent. She'd done her best to understand him, to help him. She was a part of all the life around him, a life she wanted him to reclaim.

In the end, the decision was easily made. Patrick rose gracefully to his feet and extended one hand to Lisbon. Another orange appeared magically on his palm. It was warm from his skin, full of summer life, a fresh beginning ready for the taking. Teresa reached out to take it, a smile lighting her face when Patrick spoke.

"I'll think about it."


End file.
